


aftertaste

by peakgay



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Historical Inaccuracy, Infidelity, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sex Crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 12:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peakgay/pseuds/peakgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Was it pity? Embarrassment? You used to say that my actions reflected on you, that you <i>trusted</i> me.” He spits the word and Washington lifts his chin. “Tell me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	aftertaste

**Author's Note:**

> post-Reynolds Pamphlet where I just kind of mix canon and historical thoughts because I'm boring and love pain.

“Ah, Mr. President,” Hamilton says, standing in the doorway. He bows his head; Washington enters.

“I am no longer your President, Hamilton,” he says as he divests his coat. Hamilton takes what’s handed to him and walks to the center of the house, into the kitchen. He drapes the coat carefully over the back of the chair. “Where are your wife? Your children?”

Hamilton chuckles, but his voice is dry and devoid of humor. “I could ask you the same thing,” he chides, but it’s with a gentle uncertainty. It rings in the quiet of the space. “Eliza has gone to be with her father and sister. Peggy has recently fallen ill, and she has taken the children. It should be peaceful, for a time?”

“And you, Hamilton?”

“The house is a little lonely, quiet. A good opportunity for working, however.”

Washington steps through the kitchen, towards the counters. He opens a cupboard to find only bread and fragile, ornate plates. “You received our token, then?” Washington says.

“We did,” Hamilton says, and drops into the chair. “Eliza…I believe she’s proud. She takes solace, maybe.”

Washington turns his head to look at Hamilton, frowning. “Proud?”

“To know a man and woman as noble as you and the _Lady_ Washington stand at the side of the meek Hamiltons? She doesn’t have much else to take pride in. Perhaps Philip. She finds pride in him.”

“He’s meant to graduate soon.”

“Yes,” Hamilton says. “He is still a boy. He was sick, only months ago. Incredibly so. It was a blessing, that he survived.”

“What went through your mind, Alexander?”

Hamilton’s mouth twists, but he settles on sucking his lips between his teeth. It’s an awful expression, punctuated by the deep circles around his eyes. He clenches the edge of the hardwood table.

“You read the thing, didn’t you?”

Washington laughs. “I did.”

“And are you angry, sir?”

“Angry,” Washington repeats. “When have you ever known me to be angry?”

Hamilton barks out a laugh and Washington crosses his arms, allows himself to smile. 

“In truth,” Washington says carefully, “anger was not the first response.”

“Then what,” Hamilton snaps, standing quickly. His breeches and shirt are wrinkled, he wears no waistcoat. Scuffed shoes and tired, hollow eyes. He approaches Washington, perhaps unguided, unthinking. Washington doesn’t draw back. “Was it pity? Embarrassment? You used to say that my actions reflected on you, that you _trusted_ me.” He spits the word and Washington lifts his chin. “Tell me.” Hamilton sighs, rakes his hands through his hair. “Sir, you have to tell me.”

Washington considers leaving. He contemplates many paths, as he always has and always had to. He looks at Hamilton, observes him for a minute. Thin waist, death sneaking into the corner of his eyes. He is still a boy in so many ways, still reminds Washington of nothing but the war, but he takes Hamilton’s wrist anyway and closes most of the space between them.

Hamilton sucks in one last sharp breath and goes utterly still.

“I always knew you were capable, Hamilton.” He lets his voice pitch low and Hamilton shuts his eyes. He tightens his grip on Hamilton’s wrist, twists a little, the bone pressing into his palm. Hamilton takes another shaky breath. “I can only say that I did not believe you were capable of this.”

Hamilton flicks his eyes up. “You know I am capable of much more,” he whispers, and Washington is struck by the sudden urge to remind Hamilton of his place but this is Hamilton’s home, and Washington holds no power over him anymore, probably never did in the first place. He lifts his free hand and cups Hamilton’s jaw, examines his stubble, his dark and wondering eyes. 

“Don’t tell me that’s all you care to do, Hamilton,” Washington says. His voice does not waver; he’s proud of that. Hamilton doesn’t pull from his grip but leans into the heavy warmth from his palm. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but Washington’s heart still thuds. It has been so long.

“What else am I good for,” Hamilton rasps, and that’s all that Washington hears, the desperation, that which has been there since Hamilton was twenty-two, barely more than a boy. To prove himself. Now he’s burned out, crashing, no President to write farewells for, no letters to craft in other people’s names. 

“How did we do this to you?”

“Shut up,” Hamilton says, and finally surges forward. Washington is unsure if he expected it but he does not push Hamilton away. It’s hardly a kiss, mostly biting teeth and then tongue in his mouth, and he drops Hamilton’s wrist and holds onto his waist instead, that tiny space that’s so small beneath Washington’s palms. “You didn’t make me into this,” Hamilton growls, tugging open buttons. “I was born into it.”

“Were you,” Washington says, leaning his head back. Hamilton drags teeth over his now bare shoulder and rips, with much less expertise, at the rest of his clothing. He pulls straps over Washington’s arms, tugs hard and fast and relentless, and Washington could stop it, should stop it, but he doesn’t.

“Adams was always right,” Hamilton says, pitching his voice like it’s a song. He hasn’t fallen to his knees yet, just continues to press his thumbs along muscle. If he’s trying to get Washington bare then he’s likely succeeding. “He was right about everything. Just a whore of a boy, Creole, bastard, orphan, idiot wife, ugly children, desperate to be _fucked_ , look at me, look at me, _sir_ , look at me.”

Washington takes hold of Hamilton’s shoulders. It’s gentle, more than anything, but it is still rejection, and Hamilton opens his mouth and gapes.

“Sir,” he says again, and his voice is feather light. “Please, please, don’t leave, don’t leave me here.”

“Alexander,” Washington says, and cups Hamilton’s face again, strokes along his jawline, his cheekbones. “Your wife. Your _children_.”

Hamilton is all fire again. “Aren’t here.” He pushes forward, makes a grab for Washington’s cock, squeezes through his breeches. Washington has always prided himself on self-control, on restraining his temper. Finally, the anger flares.

“What do you risk everything for,” he snarls, and Hamilton gasps as Washington switches their positions, shoves Hamilton’s thin hips against the counter. “Are you a self-fulfilling prophecy? Is that all you want to be? Whore’s son and nobody, forgotten by a war no one even remembers fighting in.”

“Sir,” Hamilton breathes, “please.”

“What could I give you that would possibly set you right?” Washington grabs a fistful of Hamilton’s hair but does not pull. Hamilton shuts his eyes. “What do you mean to do, writing your way into the army, writing your way into a war you think you’ll die in, writing your way to my _office_ , writing your way to a wife and then - and then what? Your own ruin? Was it all for nothing?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hamilton says, his voice breaking. “Your Excellency, Mr. President, General, sir, I need it, you must know by now that I cannot function without…” He stops, if only because Washington kisses him to cover his mouth. No teeth, no movement, no tongue. Dry mouth on dry mouth. It’s been a long time.

“Hamilton,” he says as he draws back. “Remain quiet, for a moment.”

“Sir,” Hamilton says instead.

“I forgive you,” Washington says. “I’m not disappointed in you, Alexander. You’ve done very well.”

Hamilton shakes.

“Will you allow me to do the honor?” Washington says, and begins to unbutton Hamilton’s undershirt. Hamilton keeps quivering. Washington continues, untucks the shirt from the breeches, removes the straps and leaves the undershirt on the table. Hamilton is thinner than he thought, ribs and stomach sucked in as he tries to keep his lungs full. “Hamilton, Hamilton, Hamilton,” three times, maybe enough to keep him quiet. Hamilton closes his eyes again.

Washington kneels on the dirty kitchen floor, takes care with the buttons at the front of Hamilton breeches and removes them just enough to reveal Hamilton’s cock. He is not fully hard yet, and that’s well enough for Washington, who sits back and strokes the shaft of it and then presses a kiss to the head.

Hamilton sobs.

“Take a breath, my boy,” Washington says. Old habits are easy enough to slip into. He hasn’t done this in some time. He goes slow. The tip resting on his tongue. He presses the flatness of his tongue beneath it, strokes and then circles the base with his fist. Hamilton hardens rapidly, whimpers.

“Just focus,” Washington says, as much to himself as to Hamilton as he draws back. He takes more this time, another inch or so. The intrusion of it is not quite unpleasant, but his mouth waters and he lets it, rubs his tongue along the underside and hums. After a few moments, Hamilton hips begin to twist.

Washington sits back again. “That’s quite alright. Let go.” He means it, and sinks down on Hamilton’s cock. This is easy enough; Hamilton thrusts and builds something on a rhythm, and the dry sobs are easy enough to ignore, or at least write off. Hamilton fills his mouth with bitter, salty release and Washington retreats and stands.

He is careful to redress Hamilton, leave nothing out of place.

Hamilton doesn’t speak. The tear stains on his cheeks have already dried. His mouth is cracked and unnaturally pink. Washington strokes his hair. The anger recedes. 

“Is that why you came?” Hamilton says as they stand beside each other, unspeaking but touching with much less restraint now. Washington drops the hand in his hair to Hamilton’s shoulder and shakes his head.

“I came to speak to you,” he says, then shrugs when Hamilton raises an eyebrow. “I have to ask. Understand it is only done…with the utmost concern for you, your future. I consider you a friend.”

Hamilton’s eyes set, stony and hard, and he peers at Washington and waits.

“Were you blackmailed, in any way?” Washington looks for tells.

Hamilton’s lips twitches, but no other reveals.

“No, sir,” he says. His voice is hoarse but doesn’t shake. “Like you said,” he says slowly, “it was my own trappings that failed me. I simply wrote my way into hell.”

“Alright,” Washington says.

He suspects he will never know the entire truth, but settles for the mouth now pressing against his jaw.

“Stay,” Hamilton whispers. “You came so far from Mount Vernon. Your wife won’t miss you.”

“Just for a while,” Washington breathes.

“Yes. Just for a while.”

**Author's Note:**

> the gift Washington mentions is a wine cooler. #classact


End file.
